


To Hold the Hands I Love

by gremlinquisitor (suchanadorer)



Series: CSI: Thedas [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fade to Black, M/M, Meet the Family, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 03:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17036132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/gremlinquisitor
Summary: Cullen invites Dorian to spend some happy holidays with his family. The holiday Dorian can manage, it's the happy he's not sure about. Set in a modern AU where Cullen is a detective and Dorian is a forensic pathologist.





	1. Chapter 1

“Really, Commander, how long do you intend to have that abomination of a ring tone?”

Dorian watches as Cullen straightens up, bottle of creamer in hand where he’d finally managed to locate it at the back of the fridge. It had taken him a few minutes, but Dorian had been content to watch quietly. If Cullen didn’t mind, then neither did he. He gives Dorian a small smile as he fishes his phone out of his pocket and swipes to send the call to voicemail, silencing the festive barking.

“Jingle dogs? Oh, at least until New Year’s. It’s a tradition.”

Dorian shakes his head, looking down at his feet where they’re crossed at the ankles as he settles against the counter in the break room. “Polishing off a bottle of dad’s best brandy before dinner is a tradition. Mother carrying the goose to the table as if she had a hand in cooking it, and everyone pretending along with her - that’s a tradition. Dogs… I shudder to use the word singing in this context, but whatever that is, it’s not a  _ tradition _ .”

Cullen chuckles as he pours the creamer into his coffee, the sharp scent of peppermint filling the break room, reaching even Dorian. Of course Cullen would have seasonal creamer. The man loves Christmas with the sort of glee that Dorian himself would normally reserve for a truly excellent mystery novel, or perhaps a particularly difficult case.

“What are you doing tonight?” Cullen asks, turning around to face Dorian, mug in hand. 

Dorian looks up at him and blinks, wide-eyed and momentarily silent. “What do you mean? Why? Is there a singing dog concert you want to take me to?” He doesn’t fight to keep the smile out of his voice, or off of his face.

“Not quite,” Cullen replies. “There might be dogs, and there might be singing, but not at the same time. I was going to do some shopping, thought you might like to come along.”

“Why do I get the feeling there’s a catch here that you’re not telling me?”

But Cullen just smiles back at him, heading out of the break room towards the stairs. “Seven p.m. Meet me here, we can walk.”

The day passes quickly, helped along by Dorian’s anticipation for the evening to come. He even puts in a couple hours of overtime to keep him at work until it’s time to meet Cullen, and the walk is pleasant, along snow-lined streets past glittering houses with decked halls. 

His expectations sink sharply when they arrive at their destination. 

Dorian sighs, his eyes moving slowly over the sight before him. He’d imagined a mall, expensive coffee and scented candles and gift boxes with aftershave, but this couldn’t be farther from it. Instead, he’s faced with little red cabins with pine-bough covered roofs, twinkling lights, carols playing from hidden speakers. It’s all terribly quaint, this makeshift market that Cullen’s brought him to, but it’s hardly somewhere he’ll be buying actual gifts. Or anything, for that matter.

But perhaps it’s worth it, seeing the way that Cullen smiles as he looks over the same parking lot turned winter wonderland. Dorian certainly can’t bring himself to make a real complaint, at least.

“Cullen, when you said you were taking me shopping, I imagined something a little more… commercial.” 

“Christmas shouldn’t be so commercial. That’s not what it’s about,” Cullen replies, taking his hand and leading him towards the first row of cabins. 

Dorian starts, but recovers almost immediately, letting his nerves manifest as a squeeze of Cullen’s hand, one that gets returned as he turns back to look at him. This is all still new for Dorian, being so public with who he is and what he wants, but Cullen’s confidence helps, especially when they’re together. They might look an odd pair, Cullen in his bomber jacket and sagging beanie, and Dorian in a tailored wool coat and scarf, but he doesn’t think about it as much when Cullen takes his hand. There are other things to focus on than who might be looking.

Their first stop is a pair of young women behind a low table covered with a cloth with reindeer and ornaments on it. There are two large metal urns, and a basket of store-bought gingerbread cookies and candy canes.

Cullen lets go of his hand long enough to order and pay, and Dorian feels the chill seep in through his gloves. A moment later, though, the warmth of Cullen’s hand is replaced by a paper mug filled with steaming wine. The scent of nutmeg and cinnamon rises up to meet him, and he watches as Cullen takes a handful of cookies with him as they move away, wishing the girls a Happy Holidays.

“So.” Dorian sips the drink, surprised to find that it still has some kick left after being heated and left to die in an urn. “What exactly is it that one… does here?”

Cullen laughs, shrugging. “I would say whatever you want, but I don’t want to let you loose on church ladies and school children.” He shoots Dorian a look, and Dorian does his best to look properly offended before softening to a smile of his own. “You… I don’t know, you walk around and look at things, buy something if you like it. Try food - there’s cheeses, smoked meat, handmade mustards and jams. There’s usually a choir at one end. If you look, there--” He moves in close to Dorian as he points, his other fingers still holding the paper mug. “You can see them.”

“I see a wooden Christmas tree, a large-- oh, are there children on that tree? Singing?” He chuckles as he takes another sip of wine. “Did someone hang them there like ornaments for their parents to collect at the end of the night?”

The look Cullen gives him is worth the harshness of the joke. “No, Dorian, they’re from the local school. They’re usually quite good, we can listen later if you’d like.”

“Thank you, but I think I’ll pass. What’s in the direction  _ opposite  _ the singing tree?”

Cullen loops his arm around Dorian’s and leads him around a corner, to another row of little wooden cabins, red on the outside, glowing warmly from the inside, all manner of wares set up on the counters. He could perhaps actually enjoy this, strolling around on makeshift gravel walkways, snow falling around them, Cullen resting against him as they go. 

It’s Cullen who stops more often than Dorian, admiring a handmade leather wallet and a pair of mittens knitted with wool that comes from the man’s own farm, he tells them enthusiastically as he encourages them to try them on. Dorian politely refuses, but not without noting the second glance that Cullen gives them before they go. Just as Cullen had said, they also sample all sorts of food. Dorian’s lost track of time, and how much he’s spent, his free hand heavy with plastic bags filled with smoked sausage, artisanal bread and surprisingly strong cheeses, along with a couple bottles of small-batch beer that Cullen had been particularly proud to have steered him towards. There are more tables with more pairs of young girls dressed as elves, and more wine, and somewhere around the third paper mug, Dorian thinks he might be starting to have a good time, against all odds. If nothing else, the combination of cold and wine has made color blossom on Cullen’s cheeks, and the strings of lights reflect in his eyes in a way that Dorian has no defense against.

Somewhere around the center of the rows of cabins, they come upon a grandly decorated throne with a well-used red carpet leading up to it, and a very round and jolly gentleman in a Santa suit sitting and chatting with the boy on his knee as the child scrolls on his phone, presumably showing Santa what he wants for Christmas.

A thought crosses Dorian’s mind, and it’s terrible, and he’s sure that Cullen will scold him for it, but none of that stops the giggle that bubbles up in him. Cullen glances at him, patient as always, and Dorian leans in close to his ear.

“Would you really rather sit on his lap than mine?”

Cullen sputters, not quite keeping himself from laughing, but the grin that he gives Dorian is the real answer to the question.

“I’ll wear red velvet head to toe if that’s what it takes, but only if you promise to take it off me,” he continues with a smirk. He is rewarded for his brash suggestion with a brush of Cullen’s lips to his gloved knuckles. He’s still not completely comfortable with public affection, but this is subtle enough that it sends a good sort of thrill through him. 

They chat about nothing important while they walk, or are quiet for a while, and Dorian watches Cullen and tries to see what he sees in this market. He’s not sure he does, but he sees how much Cullen is enjoying himself, and that’s enough. He’s glad he agreed to come.

“So, you’ll come tomorrow and help me eat all this, right?” Dorian asks. Somehow, against his better judgement, he’s been steered in the direction of the singing Christmas tree. It’s set up among several other, silent trees, heavy snow making the colored lights seem to glow from within, casting patches of red and blue onto both of them. 

“If you’d like. But… I was thinking.” Cullen looks down, then away, and Dorian’s heart stops, falling down into his stomach. Surely Cullen hasn’t brought him here to give him bad news. He hardly seems the sort that would break up with someone at Christmas.

Cullen meets his eyes and runs a hand back through his hair, and Dorian is relieved by the gesture. He knows well enough that it means Cullen is nervous, but a good, safe sort of nervous.

“Spend Christmas with me, Dorian. Please. Come home with me and meet my family.”

It is no small feat to leave Dorian Pavus speechless, and yet he finds that he has no words to reply to Cullen’s request. Here he was bracing for the worst sort of news, and he’s been given something so far removed from it that he hadn’t thought to imagine it. 

“Unless you already have plans,” Cullen hurries to add. “I know this is last minute, but… the way you talk about your parents sometimes, I thought maybe--”

Dorian holds up his hand to stop Cullen. “My Christmas plans were to stay home with many bottles of wine and some medical journals.” The furrow that appears between Cullen’s brows at the admission would have decided for him, if Dorian wasn’t already sure. “But I would gladly put that aside to go with you. You’ve told me so much about the Rutherford clan, I can’t wait to get to meet them in the flesh. But, are you sure? Me, and your family?”

Cullen grins, and the choir of children sing a shaky chord at the same time, and Dorian doesn’t think of himself as overly spiritual, but some things just shouldn’t be ignored.

“I’m sure. I want to spend Christmas with you.”

“And I you,” Dorian replies, inwardly lamenting that there are so many people around them. He settles for bringing a gloved hand up, fingers curled in, to brush his thumb along Cullen’s cheekbone.

Cullen coughs a little, the sure sign of nerves leaving him. “Good, then, that’s settled, then. Yes. Good. Well…”

Neither of them has wanted to look at the time. Dorian knows it’s getting late, but he doesn’t want to leave. Or rather, he doesn’t want to leave Cullen’s side.

“We could continue this back at mine, if you’d like,” he offers.

Cullen shakes his head, reaching out to adjust Dorian’s scarf. “Not that I wouldn’t love to, but not tonight. I start early tomorrow, and I do need to sleep before I go to work. But I wanted to thank you for coming with me. I know this isn’t your thing--”

“Spending time with you is my thing,” Dorian corrects him. “But next time, I get to pick where we go shopping.”

They make their way back out to the far edge of the market, dark in the shadow of the church, all the cabins facing away from them now. Summoning what feels like an unnecessary amount of courage, Dorian pulls Cullen close, kissing the corner of his mouth. Cullen lights up at the gesture, his expression softening as he returns the kiss, a quick peck before he takes a step away.

“Can you find your way home from here?” 

“If I say no, do I get to come home with you instead?” Dorian replies, relishing when Cullen laughs, looking away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Dorian.”

Their hands linger until their arms are stretched out between them, Dorian not wanting to be the first to let go. But he must, and so instead he watches as Cullen disappears up the block. He turns back to look three times, and Dorian smiles at him each time, waiting until Cullen turns the corner before ducking back into the market and buying the mittens.


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the week goes both too fast and too slowly for Dorian. He is impatient, but as the end of his last work day draws close, he finds he’s nervous. His bags are piled in the corner of his office, mocking him and his plans for a Hallmark card Christmas. Any number of things can go wrong between now and then. If he were going to his parents’, it would be enough for him to simply be himself for him to ruin it, and that same anxiety creeps up on him here.

His phone buzzes, Cullen’s smiling face looking up at the ceiling before it’s covered by the text message. He’s outside, waiting in his car. There’s officially no getting out of it; Dorian is spending the holidays with his boyfriend and their family.

“You can do this,” he mutters to himself as he strips off gloves and gown and cleans away the last remnants of work. “This is what regular, normal people do at the holidays. It will be fine.”

He hefts one bag up onto his shoulder, rolling another behind him, the last one in his other hand for balance. He’d done what he could with social media stalking to try to get gifts for Cullen’s brother and sisters, parents, assorted offspring that would be there, but he’s still not sure that it’s enough. Cullen’s family lives somewhere achingly rural, he knows from descriptions, but surely there will be a mall nearby if the need should arise for something last-minute.

He tosses well wishes and goodbyes over his shoulder as he heads out of the building, turning at the bottom of the stairs to head to the parking lot. Cullen is leaning against the side of his car, a beat-up red Volkswagen hatchback so old as to be charming, so endearingly Cullen. His jacket is open, and he’s wearing an actual Christmas sweater underneath it. Dorian wasn’t sure they existed in the wild until now, but if anyone were to have such a thing, it would be Cullen Rutherford.

His train of thought is interrupted by muffled but enthusiastic barking, almost enough to send him reeling backwards. Butch presses his nose to the glass of the back window, paws slipping again and again as he tries to defy physics to jump out to greet Dorian. Somehow he’d hoped that the mabari would be staying with anyone else over the holidays, but of course the dog will be joining them on the trip to Honnleath.

“You know we’re coming back, right, Dorian?” Cullen unfolds his arms and moves to meet him, taking the bag from his hand. “I appreciate the thought, but we’re not moving in.”

He sighs, following Cullen around to the back of the car and waiting while he pops the trunk, Butch obediently moving to keep track of them. “This is Christmas. I will not turn up to meet your family without gifts. How else am I supposed to get them to like me?”

Bag after bag disappears into the car, and Cullen closes the trunk before turning to look at Dorian. “Come on, get in so we can get on the road.”

Dorian slides into the passenger seat, Butch’s breath warm on his hair and ear as the dog sniffs at him in greeting. Cullen joins him a moment later, settling in behind the wheel. 

As soon as he closes the door, Cullen leans across and catches Dorian’s chin, pulling him over for a kiss. “My family all want to meet you. You have nothing to worry about,” he reassures him as he moves away, straightening himself in his seat and buckling his belt.

Dorian watches out the window as they pull out, one hand coming up to absentmindedly scratch at Butch’s ear. He wants to believe Cullen, but past experience with family gatherings tells him to anticipate the worst. Even if he has Cullen at his side, there is no guarantee of success, and he can’t stop the nagging feeling in his gut that this could end in disaster, or at the very least, no New Year’s kiss.

The drive to Honnleath is peaceful, or as peaceful as can be with an energetic mabari and Cullen singing along with the radio. Dorian likes his voice, and likes hearing it in these unguarded moments. He doesn’t for a moment think that Cullen’s forgotten he’s in the car, but he’s forgotten that he’s supposed to be shy about singing, about having attention focused on him, and it looks good on him. Dorian can’t even bring himself to mind that it’s exclusively Christmas carols as the miles slip away behind them. Cullen sounds, and looks, just as good singing Burl Ives as he does singing Mariah Carey. It’s a rare treat, and one he doesn’t want to squander.

The city disappears fast in the mirror, replaced first by grey industrial buildings, then slowly giving way to forest, all of it covered with a thick blanket of new snow. There’s traffic, but not too much; Cullen had planned for an early departure, wanting to get to the farm before dark. After their second stop for coffee, a stretch, and some private time for Butch, Dorian starts to wonder what this place will actually look like. Cullen has only described it as large, and at some point mentioned that his family used to breed mabari. It’s not a lot of information to go on.

The sun burns orange when Cullen turns off the motorway, then turns again, leading them from the six-lane monster to a narrow road framed by towering pines, the pavement black and shining where the snow has melted on it, not yet so cold that there’s a danger of ice. Butch paces in the backseat, watching for any and all signs of life that he can howl at and try to chase from inside the car.

The pines give way on one side to a wide field with a wood and wire fence, and in the distance Dorian can see a group of buildings, including the telltale shape of a barn. There are horses in the field, one dappled grey and one pale but with a black mane and tail. 

“Are those horses wearing blankets?” The field is on the driver’s side of the car, and as Dorian watches them, the horses’ ears perk up, and they set off at a run towards the car, turning to come up alongside it and run with it along the fence.

“Christmas blankets, yes. Peaches is in red, Apples is in green,” Cullen answers without looking away from the road. “My sister and I named them. We were… still quite young.”

Dorian adds this admission to the very long list of things that make Cullen blush, gaze moving back to him as the horses give up the chase, slowing to a walk even as the car starts to brake.

There is a pine tree in the front yard of the house that could well be a part of the forest they’ve just left, tall and wide and covered in lights as if he’s looking at the front of a Christmas card. The house itself is large as well, a porch wrapping around three sides, at least two floors with an attic that he can see, and with candles in every window, and a wreath on the door.

Cullen parks in front of the barn and sits for a moment, still in the sudden quiet. Butch snuffles at the window, whining, more than ready for the trip to be over.

Dorian is less sure.

Cullen reaches over and takes his hand, setting it on his thigh and wrapping it in both his own. Dorian can feel him watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“You got the horses to do that on purpose, didn’t you? A last distraction to keep me from being too nervous.”

Cullen chuckles. “If I thought it would help you, I would’ve tried it. Are you ready? We have a moment, but if we wait too long they’ll swarm the car.”

Dorian sighs, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. “There’s really no chance that I can stay in here?”

“No, but we’ll be fine. Remember, I’ll be with you the whole time.” He kisses Dorian’s hand before letting it go and opening the door.

The blast of cold air helps, and Dorian is on his feet outside the car a moment later, the last occupant out of the car as Butch races off around the corner of the house. Dorian is used to charming the occupants of every room he enters, but this is different. It’s important, meeting Cullen’s family, and it’s important to Cullen because it’s Christmas. It’s a combination that’s been a disaster for all of Dorian’s life - Christmas and family - but for Cullen, he will do his best.

“Cullen!” There’s a shout from the porch, and both of them turn to see two women coming down the steps to greet them. 

There’s no doubt in Dorian’s mind that this is Cullen’s family. Both of them have the same blonde curls, though theirs have much less product in them, and the same warm smiles. One of the women is older - Cullen’s mother, he realizes. The other is a sister, though he doesn’t dare try to guess which.

Cullen stops where he’s pulling bags out of the trunk to turn around and hug them both at once. “Ma, Mia, it’s so good to see you. You didn’t have to come all the way out, we were on our way inside.”

“It wouldn’t have to be so good to see us if you did it more often, you know.” Mia pulls back to look at him, and Dorian busies himself with the rest of the bags, not wanting to intrude. For a second he considers crawling into the trunk instead.

“We set you up a Facebook account, and you never use it. Would a picture once in a while really kill you?” His sister continues.

“I-- I post photos!” Cullen protests.

“Butch doesn’t count,” Ma Rutherford replies, muffled where she’s still pressed against her son’s chest. “Now,” she continues, stepping back from him, “is this Doctor Pavus?”

He can’t help but laugh. It’s such a cliché line that he hates to say it out loud, but it’s there before he can stop himself. “Maker, no, that’s my father. Please, please call me Dorian.” He turns to look at them, bags over both his shoulders. “You must be Cullen’s sisters. I have to say, he told me that he had one that was older, but I’m not seeing it.”

They both titter, and he’s pleased with the reception. So far, so good.

“Oh, you stop it, you. I’m his mother, and you know it.” She offers her hand, laughing a little as she gives up, both of Dorian’s hands filled with bags. “You can call me Malin, or Ma if you’d rather,” she adds, glancing at Cullen.

“Malin it is, then,” Dorian replies with a smile. “It’s a pleasure, Malin. Do you think we could perhaps continue the introductions inside? Where it’s warmer? I’m far too delicate for this cold.” 

She nods. “Of course, dear. Cullen, help your boy with the bags, why don’t you?”

Malin and Mia make their way back towards the house while Cullen and Dorian split up the luggage between them. Cullen’s travelled light, he notes, only one bag for himself, and some wrapped gifts in grocery bags, nothing compared to everything Dorian’s brought with him.

“You must be Mia,” he continues, when she slows down to walk beside them. “Even lovelier than your Instagram.”

Her eyes go wide, but he can see that she’s amused. “Have you been stalking me, Dorian?”

“I couldn’t very well come here unprepared, now could I?” He replies, looking at her from the side. “You think he was any help?”

She regards him for a moment, then grins. “You, I like. This is good. Just, promise you’ll follow me like a normal person now that we’ve met?”

He moves to put a hand over his heart, swinging his luggage in the process. “As soon as we’re somewhere with reception, I will-- What is _that?_ ”

They’ve made it to the porch, but the doorway is blocked by the fattest, oldest mabari that Dorian has ever seen. The dog looks ancient, grey fur on its muzzle and half an ear missing. Its entire being jiggles when it sees Cullen, but it takes two tries for the dog to stand, hobbling forward a couple of steps before giving up with a sigh and letting Cullen come to it instead.

“Hello, old girl,” Cullen croons, dropping to one knee to rub the dog’s head and ears. She closes her eyes at the touch, wiggling and whining happily as he scratches and coos at her.

“That’s Princess,” Mia says. “Our parents stopped breeding mabari when they realized they’d started breeding children, so she’s the last of them. I don’t even remember how old she is anymore, she’s just always been here. She’s not as fast as she used to be, unless you drop food on the floor.”

Dorian snickers, stepping carefully to the side to move around the reunion and into the house. There are stairs directly in front of him, with large, open rooms off to either side, each with doors leading further into the house. Every level surface is covered with pine or garland or figurines, or some combination of the three. Even the railing up the stairs is wrapped with silver garland, and he can see ornaments hanging from the lamp at the top of the landing.

“You’re going up the stairs, first door on the left.” Mia points, giving him a nod and a quick smile. “If you want to drop all your stuff off, I mean. You really look like you want to.”

What he wants is to retreat into the room and not come out until Boxing Day. Along with decorations, the house is filled with people; he can hear them, even if he can’t see them right now. There’s chatter and laughter and music coming from all over the house, but not a person in sight. It’s almost ominous, and he has to remind himself to smile at Mia before heading up the stairs.

The room is dark and quiet, wholly undecorated for the season, and Dorian breathes out a sigh of relief, letting the luggage slip to the floor from his shoulders. Perhaps this can be a sort of hideaway for him while they’re here, somewhere he can retreat to when everything becomes a little too jolly for his liking.

He looks around the room while he waits for Cullen to come up. There are childhood mementos on shelves: miniature golden trophies, group photos of sports teams where Dorian stops to try to figure out which round, smiling face will grow up to be Cullen. The bed is big enough for a grown man, though, with a plain bedspread in dark grey, the sheets in a lighter shade. There’s a short bookshelf by one window, and a desk that hasn’t seen use in years.

He’s leaning over the desk, squinting at a family photo, when Cullen comes in. Most of his bags had been gifts, left downstairs to be piled until Christmas morning.

“I’ve walked into a time capsule,” Dorian remarks, eyes darting to the side, though he doesn’t turn away from the photo. “Is this the same dog in this photo as the one we met downstairs?” He stops, straightening. “Where is Butch?”

“Butch is in the backyard harassing chickens,” Cullen replies, amused. “He gets a little more freedom here than he does in the city, and he does well with it. And yes, that’s Princess, back when she was still a puppy.”

“Don’t the chickens mind?”

Cullen chuckles, settling on the edge of the bed and pulling off his boots. “The chickens are the instigators. They’ll be fine.” He stretches his legs out in front of him, resting his heels on the floor. “What about you? Sorry about the ambush.”

Dorian crosses the room to stand in front of him, one of his legs between Cullen’s thighs. He’s not sure what he would’ve imagined, if he’d taken the time to imagine Cullen’s boyhood bedroom, but looking at him now, he just seems to fit into his surroundings, in a way that Dorian can’t help but feel like he doesn’t.

“What, that? That was _fine_ ,” he says, resting one hand on the side of Cullen’s neck, just under his jaw. “You know me, I… love big families! I… okay, I can’t keep that up. But it wasn’t that bad. Your sister seems great, but--” He sighs, his smile faltering. “I can’t call her Ma, Cullen. Will she mind?” 

Cullen shakes his head a little, the corners of his mouth pulling down in a quick frown, the look that tells Dorian not to worry, everything is under control. It helps, though not as much as it does when they’re somewhere less volatile, such as when Cullen is off to fight Red Templars.

“She won’t mind, not at all. She’s just glad I’ve brought someone home with me. She’s never said that to anyone before. It’s a good thing.”

It would be so easy for Dorian to sink down into his lap, settle on the bed with him and not go back downstairs. It’s what he wants. Things are easier when it’s just the two of them, no one looking on, no expectations on either of them. He runs his hand back through Cullen’s hair, smiling down at him when locks fall to the sides, ruining the perfectly styled look that Dorian knows he spent half the morning doing.

“Are they waiting for us downstairs?” He doesn’t mean to sound sad when he asks, but it creeps in anyway, this disappointment at not having Cullen all to himself.

Cullen reaches out and pulls him close, pressing his face to Dorian’s stomach. “Not waiting, no. They were getting ready to open some wine and look at old photos, and we’re welcome to join them if we want.” He tips his head back to look up at Dorian. “It’s sort of a tradition when one of us brings along someone new, but they know you worked all night, and then we drove all day. You didn’t even sleep in the car.”

“I couldn’t have slept if I’d wanted to.” He bends down to kiss Cullen, unsurprised to find that he already tastes like sweet peppermint. “Come on, let’s go down for a while, introduce me to the folks.”

He steps back, taking Cullen’s hand and hauling him to his feet. Cullen wraps his arms around him and again, for a moment, Dorian considers calling it a day and staying where they are. But the week has been filled with family stories from Cullen, and he wants to put a face to the names and anecdotes. These people are important to Cullen, and Cullen is important to him.

Cullen takes the lead going downstairs, holding Dorian’s hand as if to lead him, though it’s unnecessary. Dorian following where Cullen goes will be theme of the visit, if Dorian has any say in it. He loosens his grip, letting Cullen’s hand drop when they come in sight of the living room at the bottom of the stairs. The look that Cullen gives him is sad - not reproachful, but acknowledging and understanding. He’s been patient, letting Dorian figure out boundaries on his own terms, and even here, with family, it will be no different. 

Dorian is grateful, reassured enough to reach out and hook their pinky fingers together as they join the group settled on couches and chairs.

Mia and Malin he’s already met, mirror images of each other at different points in life, so clearly Cullen’s relations. Malin pushes a glass of wine into his hand when she catches him looking at hers, one corner of her mouth pulling up into a smirk.

“If you’re not used to big families, this could be a long few days for you,” she whispers.

He gives her the most confident smile he can muster over the rim of the glass. “I am used to a small family in a very large house. We could go all Christmas only hearing each other moving around and not seeing, like ghosts in a Dickens novel, but more tastefully decorated.”

She laughs a little at that, clearly caught off-guard by the admission. He thinks she might be about to try to comfort him when he feels a touch at the small of his back, gentle guidance for him to turn for more introductions.

He recognizes faces from his social media searches before they’d left, but it’s nice to be able to put them with names, to see personalities and hear voices. Rosalie is the youngest, bright blue hair shorn close to her head and a ring through her lower lip. Dorian likes her immediately, and they fall into easy conversation when she mentions that she’s going into veterinary medicine. She has a baby boy balanced on one hip, chewing happily on the drawstring of her hoodie, and she introduces him as Jacob, Branson’s youngest and the newest addition to the Rutherford family.

Branson himself appears shortly afterwards, greeting Dorian with a firm handshake and the wide sort of smile that he expects to see in commercials. Cullen’s younger brother is pleasant, if too loud when he laughs. Dorian does his best to hide his surprise when he’s told that no less than four of the children running around the house are Branson and his wife’s, and she spares only enough time to exchange names and shake Dorian’s hand before she’s off again, wrangling a young boy and girl as they try to climb the banister, Princess watching them patiently, waiting for dropped bits of gingerbread.

Beyond Cullen’s siblings and their families are more extended relations, Malin’s brother and sister-in-law have brought along cousins and a friend, more children and partners. Apparently some of them are neighbors from a farm on the other side of the forest as well. Some are sitting with photo albums, others gathered in corners and near windows, chatting quietly. The next time he sees Rosalie, she’s stationed herself near the mistletoe, offering a clapping, babbling Jacob to anyone who wants a kiss. Dorian does his best to keep up; after all, he’s used to dazzling at parties full of strangers, but in every other case it’s a lot of people who mean nothing to him, and will be forgotten when the night is over. Not so here. It must show on his face that he’s failing, as Mia appears at his elbow moments after he realizes he’s lost track of Cullen in the crowd. He’s listening to someone tell a story about an old car, or a truck, and there’s a photo of it, but he can’t focus on it, eyes moving from face to face, seeking the familiar.

“You look like you need a break,” she offers quietly as she steers him towards the far side of the house, past the stairs. There’s a fireplace on one wall, warm and crackling, surrounded by stockings, and considerably fewer people. Cullen is not among them, but there’s a little room for him to breathe, and no one new for him to meet.

“I hope no one expects me to remember all those names.” He takes a sip of his wine, shaking his head. “I don’t normally meet that many people in a week, let alone over the course of-- what time is it, anyway?”

“Late enough that you could make an exit without anyone noticing,” she replies. “Cullen is probably out on the back porch if you want to collect him.”

Dorian sighs with exaggerated drama, looking away out the window. “Why does he have to thrive in the cold? Is this to be my lot in life?”

He smiles in response to Mia’s laugh, feeling slightly better about the otherwise overwhelming evening. “Thank you, and thank you for the rescue, but he’s talked about this all week. I’ll let him get caught up, and just sneak off to his room. The long day is catching up to me.”

She nods, plucking the half-empty wine glass out of his hand. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

He gives her an apologetic nod as he heads up the stairs, careful to negotiate around the children running back down. He can still hear the music and general shape of the conversations below him when he closes the door to Cullen’s room, but it’s far enough away that he can breathe out. It went well, he thinks. No arguments or tantrums, even from the little ones.

There’s an upstairs bathroom at the end of the hall, complete with tree-shaped soaps that smell like pine and the sort of perfume that people use when they want something to smell like winter. After a quick stop there, Dorian heads back to the bedroom. He steps out of his shoes, pausing to look around before starting to undress. He hangs his shirt and trousers over the back of the desk chair, tries to remind himself to ask Cullen tomorrow about where best to put them otherwise. He doesn’t want to spread his things out all over.

The bed is cool, with a firm mattress and soft pillow, and he’s surprised to find how tired he actually is when he stretches out under the comforter. He’s not sure how much time has passed when he feels the mattress dip behind him, a warm body nestling in against his back, arm looped around his waist. The sound of claws clicking on the wooden floor follows, and Dorian hears Butch lay down with a sigh so heavy and relieved that he thinks he can relate. 

“I do hope you’re Cullen, otherwise I will be in a great deal of trouble,” he murmurs to the body beside him.

He feels it when Cullen chuckles, a rumble in his chest that vibrates against Dorian’s back, and he pulls Cullen’s arm tighter around him. 

“I’m sorry I left you on your own,” he whispers, leaving little kisses on the shell of Dorian’s ear. “Mia said you were all right, but…”

“I was a rousing success,” Dorian mumbles, bringing Cullen’s hand up to kiss his knuckles. “Three offers of marriage, four job opportunities! Someone wanted me to adopt their child as well. That one, I turned down.” He shifts onto his back, head falling to the side to look at Cullen. Dorian’s grin fades when he sees the soft way that Cullen is regarding him, even in the dark of the room. 

“It was fine, Cullen.” He hesitates before continuing. “They won’t all be here the whole time, will they?”

Cullen shakes his head. “Some of them are staying in the guest house, some of them just drove in for the day and are staying a hotel. And yes, some of them will be here. But so will I. That won’t happen again.”

Cullen leans in and kisses Dorian, untangling his hand from where Dorian is holding it to slide up his chest and neck, caressing his jawline. He smells like spices and someone else’s pipe smoke, scents clinging to his hair, things that toothpaste and a quick wash didn’t banish. Dorian pulls him in and deepens the kiss, desire fighting against exhaustion. He finally has Cullen all to himself, but he’s been awake for over 24 hours now, and he feels it.

“I hope we can continue this discussion tomorrow, but right now…” Dorian shakes his head. It’s embarrassing, as if he’s admitting defeat.

“I look forward to it,” Cullen replies, settling down beside him. The bed is too narrow for them to sleep any way but pressed against each other, and so Dorian turns on his side again, content to be the little spoon, safe between Cullen and the wall, as if he is protected from the rest of the house by the man sleeping so close to him.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning dawns bright, with frost painting intricate patterns on the windows, obscuring the view to the yard outside. Dorian is not normally an early riser, but he’s restless, all too aware that he’s woken up somewhere unfamiliar. They’ve shifted during the night so that Dorian is resting on Cullen, one leg thrown over his hip and an arm around his waist. He waits as long as he can bear before given in to his body’s protests and carefully climbing out of bed. Cullen opens his mouth, only to close it again without waking, and for a moment Dorian stands still beside the bed, looking down at him and trying to understand how he wound up here. Dorian Pavus is a highly skilled man with many talents and good qualities, but he just doesn’t have this sort of luck, and it takes the breath from him to think that the man before him - the man he woke up in bed with, who brought him here, at Christmas, to meet his family - feels the same.

Negotiating a new bathroom is always a challenge, but after a quick, blessedly hot shower, Dorian pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweater and heads downstairs as quietly as he can. There was no sign that the festivities were ending when he and Cullen fell asleep last night, so he has no idea who might be up to meet him. Hopefully no one, he thinks, but as soon as he turns the corner he knows it’s not to be. The scent of coffee meets him as he makes his way to the kitchen to find the matriarch of the Rutherford clan sitting at the table, reading the paper. It’s so quaint that he’s tempted to take a photo.

The top of the paper wilts, and Malin looks up at him with a smile. “Good morning! Mugs are in the cabinet over the coffee-maker. There’s tea if you want it, but you’ll need to boil water or put it in the microwave.”

“Coffee is fine, thank you, Malin.” He is surprised, but also relieved by her nonchalance. It would be worse to be doted on, but this he can handle.

The counter is littered with remnants of last night’s party, from leftover cheese platters to open boxes of crackers and cookies. Dorian snags a cookie, leaving it hanging half out of his mouth while he tries to decide among the jumble of mismatched mugs. He settles on one with the Inquisition logo, promising himself to ask Cullen later how it wound up in his mother’s cupboard.

“There’s milk in the fridge,” Malin continues from behind the paper. “And peppermint creamer, but don’t take the end of it, it’s--”

“Cullen’s.” He says it at the same time as she does, and when he looks over his shoulder, she’s smiling at him again, and he can’t help but feel like he passed a test of some sort. “He has a bottle at work, too. But I take mine black, though, thank you again.”

Dorian settles into a chair opposite her at the table, wrapping his hands around the mug and willing the rest of him to be as warm. There’s a tray of muffins on the table between them, and Malin nudges it in his direction without lowering the newspaper. He blinks at the tray, then takes one, peeling off the wrapper.

Malin folds the paper, then folds it again, setting it down next to her own cup of coffee. Dorian concentrates on the muffin, not wanting to look up and accidentally start a conversation. He’d been enjoying the relatively low pressure quiet between them, and the newspaper had been an excellent facilitator. 

“So, Dorian, can I ask what brings you home with Cullen for Christmas?”

A chill runs down his back to settle in his stomach, and he does his best to smile when he looks up at her. “I-- A red Volkswagen, Malin.” He reaches over and sets his hand on hers, tipping his chin down to look at her with mock concern. “It’s Cullen’s, did… did you not see it? It’s outside, we can go look.”

She purses her lips and gives him a deadpan look. “You’re very charming, but you can also just say you don’t want to talk about it. I’m not trying to pry, dear. For all I know, you two flipped a coin. I’m just glad you’re here.”

He pats her hand, then pulls back to return to picking the muffin into small pieces. “Damn, to think, I could’ve said that instead and ended the whole discussion.” He pops a bit of muffin into his mouth and follows it up with a sip of coffee. “But no. My family is… well. Family Christmases are something different for us.”

“What do your parents do?” She asks, and he hates how genuinely interested she is. It makes it harder to be sarcastic about it.

“My father is the head of the board of a hospital, and a successful surgeon in Tevinter. My mother makes spending his money her full-time job.”

She nods, and he has no idea what that means. “And is it just you, only child?”

Dorian clears his throat. “Yes, but not to worry, they have so much staff at home that I doubt they’ll notice I’m missing until they realize I’m not there to yell at about not being married yet. Or chief of staff at the hospital, that one’s always popular this time of year.”

Malin tuts, turning in the chair and standing. She talks as she crosses the kitchen to refill her coffee cup. “You boys do important work where you are. You’re a forensic… something, Cullen told me. One of the best, he said.”

Dorian glances away out the window, then down at his coffee cup, though neither provide any cover for him to hide the blush he feels on his cheeks. He hadn’t considered that Cullen might have told her anything about him, not yet at any rate. “Forensic pathologist. Very unglamorous, but… important, yes. I like to think I help.”

“I’m sure you do more than that,” she replies, with a look that he recognizes from his own mother, though it looks kinder on Malin, that maternal certainty that she knows more than she’s letting on and saying more than she means. 

There is the telltale sound of feet on the stairs, and Cullen shuffles into the kitchen a moment later in a ribbed grey tank top and plaid pajama pants. He stops to press a kiss to the top of Dorian’s head, then makes his way towards the coffee maker. His eyes are barely open, and Dorian can’t recall ever seeing his curls so untamed, sticking out in every possible direction from his head. It’s utterly endearing, and he rests his cheek on his fist while he watches Cullen pour himself coffee and creamer on autopilot.

“‘Morning,” he mumbles, more into his mug than to either of the people present in the kitchen with him.

“Good morning to you too, sleepyhead.” Malin sets her coffee mug in the sink and returns to the table to collect the paper. “Your sisters went out early, said they’d be back for lunch. They’re going shopping in town, text if you need anything. And Mia wanted me to remind you, and I quote: ‘Make sure he takes his boyfriend with him when he goes to get the tree.’” She stops in front of Cullen, who blinks slowly, eyes not quite focusing on her. “Did you get all that?”

Dorian hides his laughter behind a closed fist. “If he didn’t, then I did, not to worry.”

She gives him a smile, then heads off into the living room, curling up in the corner of the couch with a pen and the crossword puzzle. Dorian stares, but only for a second, as Cullen follows after her, only to head back up the stairs, coffee in hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Dorian goes with him, settling on the bed while to wait. 

“Good thing I went first. Is there any hot water left in the house?” Dorian sits up, locking his phone when Cullen finally reappears. He looks much more himself, hair combed back and eyes bright and alert. 

“The water’s softer out here, so I like taking longer showers,” Cullen explains as he bends to look through his bag for clothing. He’d come in in nothing but boxer briefs, and Dorian’s head falls to the side as he admires the view.

“You know, for my part, you don’t have to put anything else on.” 

Cullen glances back over his shoulder and Dorian grins, but he just shakes his head. “We have things to do today that will be considerably more difficult if I go out dressed like this.”

Again, Dorian considers protesting. He can think of things for them to do right here and now that would also be hindered by Cullen’s current dress, though the addition of more clothing would not make his plans any easier.

“We? I thought the plan was to come here and relax.”

Cullen straightens, slipping a dark grey henley over his head. “It is, but we need a tree. It’s-- I always go get them. It’s a tradition.”

Dorian nods. “Yes, your mother mentioned something about that earlier, before you were fully conscious, and it was rather conspicuous in its absence last night.” He’d walked around the entire house without finding it, though he’d seen the corner where he could only assume it was meant to stand, presents in a pile with a string of lights draped over them in anticipation of the placement of an actual evergreen, which apparently he and Cullen were tasked with going to find.

Over the henley, Cullen layers a flannel shirt in a red and green plaid, and a thick knit sweater in a pale cream flecked with brown. It’s a charming, rustic look, but also seems a suspicious amount of clothing for taking the Volkswagen to the closest parking lot to pick out the least sad and crooked tree available. He sits on the edge of the bed, pulling on a second pair of socks, and turns to look at Dorian.

“Did you bring boots with you?”

“I brought three different pairs of shoes, but somehow I get the feeling that none of them are going to live up to the standard that will be needed today.” He looks out the window, then back to Cullen, brows furrowed. “I wasn’t watching the road the whole time yesterday. Are we actually at the North Pole? Where are we getting a tree from?”

“Where trees usually come from.” Cullen stands and crosses the room to the closet, turning on the bare bulb with a string hanging down. His voice is muffled as he rummages. “The forest. You saw it yesterday. It’s not far, but once we’re there it’ll be a bit of walking to find the right one.” He emerges, a pair of boots in hand. “Here. You’re a size smaller than me, but you’ll need extra socks as it is, so these should do the trick.”

Dorian has seen ugly shoes in his time, things with beads and suede and garish colors. The boots Cullen hands him are more functional and less decorative than any of those, but no less ugly for it. Tan rubber soles and a grey rubber toe rise up to meet golden brown leather. They’re clearly worn and loved, but still look sturdy. He doubts Cullen would give them to him only to have them fail him once they’re outside.

His skepticism must show on his face, and in fairness Dorian is making no attempt to hide it. He’s never thought of himself as a city boy, or at least not as the sort that wouldn’t be able to survive in the country, but now he’s less sure, as he considers his own cashmere sweater and designer jeans. 

“I have an extra sweater for you, too, if you’d like,” Cullen offers, voice warm and full of affection. “I’m not going to let you freeze to death.”

“I don’t know if you’ve considered, but it’s also warm here in the house,” Dorian replies as Cullen digs another bulky sweater out of his bag and hands it to him. “We could just stay here.”

He’s met with a sigh, and a look of real disappointment. “You can stay if you want, I won’t drag you. But I think it’s fun, I look forward to it, and I’m going.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “I thought it might be good to get out of the house a little, do something just the two of us.”

Well, now Dorian feels like a heel for being difficult about it. He hadn’t understood that Cullen had counted that in as a part of this plan, or else he might have been more willing from the start. He tugs the sweater down over his head and runs a band back through his hair.

“Let’s get going, then.” 

With the extra pair of socks on, the boots fit well enough for him to walk around in, he decides as they make their way down the porch steps. Butch had raced out as soon as Cullen opened the door, Princess whining but not trying to follow them. It snowed during the night, giving the world a fresh coat of paint and smoothing out sharp edges. It’s all soft and quiet and feels earlier than it is, the sun still low in the sky.

Cullen pushes the barn doors open enough to step between them, and for a moment Dorian forgets to help, his concentration instead on the broadness of shoulders, narrow waist and hips even in his heavy coat. But Cullen glances back over his shoulder at him, and Dorian hurries to be of assistance, each of them tugging one of the sliding doors through the snow until the barn stands open.

The space is occupied various implements that Dorian can’t identify and is careful to avoid as they appear to be sharp, dirty, or both. Among them, however, is a battered green four-wheeled ATV, and beyond that, a small metal trailer. Cullen moves with practiced steps around the ATV, almost disappearing where he crouches down to hook the trailer to the back of it.

Dorian has never been in a barn before. He’s been in lofts, tastefully decorated with big skylights and exposed beams, but nothing like this. There are fewer animals and less hay than he’d imagined, but overall the look is the same, down to the flaking paint and the sunlight through the high windows.

“That’s not a sleigh,” he pouts, settling his weight, arms folded. “I was hoping for actual, horse-drawn--” His eyes light up when Cullen’s face appears over the back of the ATV. “Are we going to dash through snow on that?” He’s excited. He’s not sure he can believe it himself, but there it is.

Cullen laughs, standing and brushing off the seat of the ATV. “Well, there’s snow, so I guess the answer would be yes, though I don’t know how much dashing we’ll be able to do once we get to the forest. Unless we can find a good one right on the border, we might have to walk a bit.” He swings his leg over and sits, turning to look at Dorian and patting the seat behind him. “Come on, hop on.”

Dorian eyes the seat, then Cullen. “Me? There? Without a helmet or anything?”

The look of feigned hurt on Cullen’s face is so authentic that Dorian notes he’ll have to stop doing that himself, lest Cullen start learning from him.

“Do you not trust me, Dorian?”

It’s an unexpectedly sneaky gambit on Cullen’s part, but it does the trick. Dorian climbs on to the ATV, scooting in until he’s pressed against Cullen’s back, arms around his waist. With so much clothing, it’s not as close as he’s used to, but he gives Cullen a quick squeeze nonetheless.  
The ATV coughs and rumbles to life underneath them, lurching forward at first before setting off towards the forest. The pace is slow, but Dorian still buries his face between Cullen’s shoulder blades to keep from staring into the cold wind.

It’s a bumpy start, a bit of swaying as they roll away from the barn and out towards the road. Dorian can hear the trailer rattling along behind them, and after a moment he hears barking, and turns his head to see Butch bounding alongside them, tongue hanging out despite the chill, paws disappearing into the snow.

And what snow it is. They cross the road and the ATV lurches up over a snowbank, tipping down again to get to level ground on the other side. Dorian peeks out over Cullen’s shoulder when he feels Cullen gives his hand a quick squeeze. The sun is just coming up over the tops of the pines that they’re barreling towards, sending sharp beams of light down between branches to break up the shadows cast by the trees, themselves dusted white with snow, the contrast enough to make them seem black. More snow flies around them as they wheel towards their destination, flakes sparkling where the light hits them. The sky above is so blue he has to squint when he looks at it. It’s not the deep blue of Tevinter, but a shade somehow enriched by the cold, pale but still bright, and when he turns his face towards the sun, it’s almost warm. Almost.

That feeling disappears all too soon, however, as they approach the edge of the forest and come into the shadows of the trees. It’s a rather neat edge, straight and organized, and it only occurs to Dorian after they’ve passed it that it’s because someone made it that way, likely some Rutherford ancestor who first settled the farm.

Cullen slows down to a crawl. There’s a path that Dorian hadn’t been able to see from the road, but it’s half-covered with pine boughs and doesn’t appear to have been used since the snow started.

“You all right back there?” Cullen leans and turns a little as he calls back to Dorian, who nods and tightens his hug around Cullen’s middle as a reply. A branch rakes along the side of the ATV, leaving snow on their legs as they forge onward. Somewhere off to their left, Butch appears and disappears, following a trail of his own. He’s never out of sight for long, and comes running every time Cullen whistles for him.

Most of the trees around them are pines, spaced apart from each other, though some have grown so closely together so that they’ve given up entirely on the concept of lower branches, instead competing for sunlight high above Cullen and Dorian’s heads, leaving only bare trunks at eye level.

Cullen stops the ATV and turns it off, and for a moment Dorian thinks that something is wrong. It’s so quiet, not as if he’s gone deaf, but as if he’s falling asleep, no noise getting through the fog. But he’s wide awake, and he can hear his own breathing, knows it’s his because it matches the puffs of steam in front of his face. 

A branch snaps and Butch barks, and his first instinct is to shush the mabari, to keep the calm from being broken, like surface tension on a pond. He’s never heard stillness like this in his life, as if it’s a thing that lives in the forest that they’ve encountered, rather than just a matter of trees muffling sound around them. It has a weight and a presence, some benevolent woodland god that’s seen fit to bless them without making itself seen.

He sits up just enough to rest his head on Cullen’s shoulder, nudging the shell of his ear with his nose. Even in the cold, Cullen radiates warmth from what little skin he has exposed.

“We should get going,” Cullen mumbles, softer than he needs to, as if he also wants to preserve the peace around them.

“In a moment. I just want to…” He pauses. “I’ve never felt quiet like this.”

Cullen shifts, pulling one knee up onto the seat of the ATV and turning so that he’s almost facing Dorian, and the rustling of his clothing is almost too much, and he has no idea how he’s supposed to concentrate long enough for them to find a tree here, not when every little noise sets his nerves on edge, and he just wants to wrap himself in the silence, and--

And then Cullen is kissing him, and this also new and unexpected and wonderful. They’ve kissed dozens of times now; Dorian counted at first but he’s lost track. But he’s never been able to listen like this before, to hear every little change in the way that Cullen breathes, the unspeakably sexy way it catches in his throat when Dorian nips at his lower lip. His world is filled with the soft, damp sounds of their lips and the scratch of their clothing. He can even hear - really hear - his own pulse in his ears. It’s intoxicating, and he would gladly stay in this moment until they both froze solid, to be found in the spring like some sort of Greek myth.

He follows when Cullen pulls away, only opening his eyes when he hears him chuckle. “We need a tree, Dorian.” His lips are pink and shining, and there’s a blush on his cheeks that defies the cold, that Dorian put there with his kiss. It’s too much for him, and he reaches out to Cullen again, taking his face in both hands and kissing him one more time.

“All right,” he says, letting Cullen go. “Let’s go find a Christmas tree.”

The snow comes up to just under the tops of his boots when he stands. It’s easiest to just follow in Cullen’s footsteps, literally, setting his feet in the prints that Cullen leaves. The snow crunches and squeaks and shuffles around them, the forest itself ticking where sunlight warms the wood high above them. Butch returns, fur sparkling with melted snow along his back, carrying a branch between his jaws.

Dorian is fairly sure that he knows what makes a good Christmas tree. It should be wide and round, with an even, conical shape from the base to the top. His parents always had at least one real tree, no doubt carefully chosen by someone else, and his father would go to a great deal of trouble to make sure that the staff turned it so that any empty patches or other unsightly details were hidden from view. The comparison to his own situation is not lost on him, and the irony stings when the thought comes.

He hasn’t called them to let them know he’s not coming, and while the knowledge twists inside him, he also knows quite well that there are no missed calls on his phone, either, nor will there be, and that has nothing to do with him being so far from civilization and a decent cell phone signal.

They tromp through the forest for what feels like hours, the silence changing around them but never lifting entirely. Ahead, a branch snaps, sending a small avalanche of snow to the ground as it falls through the trees. He and Cullen exchange more kisses than words as they walk, Dorian abandoning his strategy of following behind so that he can walk next to him where the snow isn’t as deep under the trees. Cullen seems to know exactly where he’s going, though occasionally he pauses to consider a tree, then decides against it, continuing on. The trailer has long since disappeared behind them, but Dorian isn’t worried. Cullen is in his element here, in a way that reminds him of the market, but also of those rare glimpses he’s had of Cullen in the field, chasing down a lead, sometimes literally. He has a brilliant mind, sees details and makes connections that no one else does, not even Dorian. When Cullen glances around them, that same sharpness is in his eyes, and it makes Dorian feel safe. Bears could appear in the forest, and he would not be afraid.

That he’s carrying an axe in one hand helps, but it’s not the most important part of the thought.

Cullen stops ahead of him, and Dorian is so lost in thought that he almost runs into his back. “We should be able to find one here.” They’ve come to what was likely a clearing some time ago, slowly reclaimed by nature, now dotted with pine trees roughly the size they need. Here, for the first time, Dorian sees tracks other than their own, and finds a fresh stump off to one side.

“Are you sure we’re on your family’s land?” He asks, already starting to peruse the trees to see if he can find one for them to bring back. It would be a point of pride, he thinks, being the one who actually picked the tree. 

Cullen shrugs. “We’re not that careful about it out here. Maybe one year someone takes a tree that’s on our land, but then maybe one year, we take a tree from their land. I figure it more or less evens out in the end.” He runs his hand along a tree, shaking snow from the branches and tilting his head to look, then moving on to the next.

“Cullen, come look, what do you think?” Dorian has walked around the tree twice, shaken the branches, tilted his head both this way and that, and he can see no immediate flaw with the tree. It’s tall, with a straight trunk and lots of branches. The needles stay on when he drags a gloved hand along one branch, and he can’t find a bare patch on it. It’s as if it was left there for them to find.

Cullen appears from behind the tree and takes a lap around it as well. He nods as he walks, bottom lip sticking out in that way that he has when he’s appraising something, be it a crime scene or a Christmas tree. 

“It’s perfect,” he replies when he comes around to Dorian’s side again. “Good work.” 

Cullen grabs him by the waist with his free hand and pulls him in for a kiss. He still tastes like the menthol balm he’d put on his lips before they went out, and Dorian smiles, not wanting to step away, but also definitely not wanting to be in the way for what Cullen needs to do.

He starts by cutting away a couple of the lowest branches, giving him a clear line to the trunk. Dorian stands off to the side to watch, by turns amused and amazed at Cullen’s singular focus. He strips off his beanie and tucks it into his pocket, running a hand over golden curls before he starts in on the trunk, swinging the axe in long arcs, the thunk when it connects echoing into the woods again and again. It’s over more quickly than expected, with Cullen hurrying to step back, his arm thrown across Dorian’s chest to shield him as the tree falls past them.

Dorian turns his head to look at him. “I've never been so aroused in my entire life,” he breathes. “Maker’s breath, I've fallen for a lumberjack.”

Cullen’s laugh rings out in the forest, loud enough to bring Butch running to meet them, bounding around their feet.

“Promise you'll fell me like that tree later,” Dorian continues, clutching Cullen’s arm to his chest. “Please, amatus.”

“Must I remind you that we’re staying in my childhood home,” Cullen sighs, though he’s still laughing. He pulls one glove off with his teeth so that he can set his hand on Dorian’s jaw, and the gesture is so ruggedly romantic that Dorian feels a flush on his cheeks.

“It's not _my_ childhood home,” he protests, twisting to press a kiss to Cullen’s palm.

“There are baseball cards tacked to the walls.”

He’s still amused, but now he looks at Cullen with heat, stepping in close and setting both hands on his chest. “I was planning on spending most of the time looking at the ceiling,” he purrs, looking up through his lashes. He’s joking, unless Cullen agrees to it, in which case he’s absolutely serious.

Dorian slides one hand up to the nape of Cullen’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss. Cullen goes willingly, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s waist to press their bodies together. Cullen’s mouth is warm, and Dorian sets a hand on his cheek, as if to keep the heat from escaping as they kiss. 

“We need to get back,” Cullen murmurs, resting his forehead against Dorian’s.

“I should say so. No way I’m getting us out of all eighteen layers of clothing out here in the wild.”

He’s loathe to let Cullen go. This is the first real moment of privacy they’ve had in days, even before they left for Honnleath, and even in the cold, far from civilization, he’s relaxed here, in Cullen’s arms, with him smiling at him. Going back means being surrounded again, and for all that Cullen’s family has been kind so far, they aren’t Cullen.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” The look that Cullen gives him when he says it is impossibly fond, to the point where Dorian can’t bring himself to tell him that yes, he does know. But what he doesn’t know, doesn’t always understand, is what Cullen sees in him that keeps him by his side. He’s grateful for it everyday, but he wishes he knew better what it is he does, or is, that’s won Cullen’s heart.

Butch does his part to cement the mabari reputation for intelligence, herding and guiding them back to the ATV. Cullen is carrying the tree at the bottom, with Dorian holding up the thinner end of the trunk to keep it from dragging through the snow. Cullen makes short work of strapping the tree on to the trailer, and Dorian congratulates himself on keeping his hands in his pockets and not making a single comment about how much he wants to be a tree. He settles in behind Cullen again, arms around his waist, and they head back to the house. Dorian is surprised by the happiness that wells up in him when they break through the edge of the forest and the Rutherford home comes into view, artificial candles in the windows, colored lights in the tree outside somewhat dimmed by the sunshine.

This time, Cullen carries the tree himself, branches covering his arm up to the shoulder as he lifts with one hand. He brushes past Dorian, giving him a sly grin as he goes, and it takes a moment for Dorian’s body to catch up to his brain, everything non-essential below his waist having frozen as he watches Cullen walk away. But then he’s back, hurrying ahead to open the door to let Cullen take the tree inside.

“Cullen? Dorian, is that you?” Mia’s voice greets them from the kitchen. Both of them pause to stomp snow from their boots, but only Dorian stays in the entryway, stripping off layers of clothing. Cullen continues inside with the tree.

“No,” Dorian calls. “It’s two other devastatingly handsome elves that have come to deliver your Christmas tree. You really shouldn’t leave the door unlocked, you know.” 

She peers out through the doorway between the kitchen and living room, and Dorian gives her a smile.

“Get in here. Now you’re back, it’s time to do some real work.”

Dorian looks from the kitchen to the corner where Cullen is setting up the tree, and back. Somehow he suspects that in neither case will he find an activity that he particularly wants to help with, but he has spent the entire morning with Cullen, so perhaps it’s time for him to acquaint himself with more of the family.

He’s greeted by an apron to the face when he steps into the kitchen.

“Here! You’re going to need this, and you’re going to want to take off that sweater, unless you want it covered in icing sugar.” Rosalie beams at him, her wicked grin clearly making her the one who tossed the apron at him.

Dorian slips his sweater off, hanging it over the back of an empty chair, and untucks his t-shirt. Black is likely the wrong choice for helping with baking, but it’s too late to go upstairs and change. He holds the apron up to look at it - bright green, with an enormous gingerbread man on it. Easy enough to tell which way is out, at least.

He approaches their assembly line-esque set up as he ties the apron behind his back, observing for as long as he can before he gets forced to actually do something. Mia is rolling dough flat on the flour-covered surface of the counter, while Rosalie is carefully picking up cut cookies and setting them onto baking trays. Various children with names that Dorian has already forgotten have been set to work at the table, dripping food coloring into icing or sorting candies by colors. They all have glistening fingers and sticky-looking mouths, and he hopes inwardly that he’ll be helping the adults.

Rosalie glances back over her shoulder, then does a double-take. “Whoa! I didn’t see those at all last night. Can I look? Let me look.” Without warning, she’s grabbed Dorian’s hand, turning his arm in one direction, than the other, taking in the intricate designs in his sleeve tattoo. Snakes and peacock feathers wrap around from his bicep down to his wrist, interspersed with smaller things - a caduceus with a date in tiny numbers beneath it, a vine with thorns that disappears up under his sleeve, leading to a rose near his shoulder. There’s no color in any of it, only shading with black ink. He watches her as she takes it in, smiling softly to himself, careful not to pull away when she brushes her fingers over the newest addition, lettering a little darker than the rest, along the inside of his arm.

“Damnant quod non intellegunt,” she mutters, setting her hand over the words with something that feels like reverence. When she looks up at Dorian, there’s a softness in her eyes, a furrow between her brows that tells him that she understands, even more than he might want her to.

“Your brother likes them, too.” He slips his hand out of her grasp and glances away, feigns interest in the magnet collection on the fridge. “Must run in the family.”

Rosalie clears her throat, and the moment is officially over. “Here, you can help me cut out cookies, I could use a second set of skilled hands for this, doctor.”

The title pulls a grin from him, and he moves to join the sisters at the counter, each of them shifting only just enough for him to fit between them.

The dough is spread out in a roughly rectangular shape, cookie cutters of all shapes and sizes strewn around it.

“Did you pick out a good tree?” Mia asks, already working on the next batch of dough. The scent of vanilla wafts up to meet him as she mixes.

“No,” he replies, pursing his lips. “There were none left. Not a single nice tree in the whole forest, so we took the least shitty one and-- Oh!” He covers his mouth with the back of his hand and turns to look to see if any of the children heard him, but they’re all oblivious while the girls laugh on either side of him.

“They’re so full of sugar they’re hearing colors more than swear words, don’t worry about it.” Mia chuckles. “But did you have a good time? It must’ve been nice to get away from the house a little.”

Dorian nods, shrugging a little with one shoulder. It seems unkind to admit that he wanted to be away from all of them for a while, but she said it first, and it’s true, so he won’t deny it.

“No, no, no. Stop.” Rosalie bats the reindeer cookie cutter out of his hand. “You’re not ready for that, that’s next-level cookie cutting. Trees, snowmen, hearts, those are your basics, start there. You see those antlers? You’ll just break them off, and we’ll be leaving Christmas donkeys for Santa.”

“More thematically correct, as I understand it,” he replies. “There were no reindeer in Bethlehem. You do realize I cut people open for a living, right?”

She gives him a deadpan look. “Dead people don’t require the same accuracy. Snowmen. Trees. Hearts. If you can do those, then maybe you can level up.”

They work in silence for a while, and sure enough, after two trays are filled with the easier shapes, Rosalie hands him a reindeer, and they fill another tray, waiting for its turn in the oven.

Much of the rest of the afternoon passes this way, with Dorian learning the difference between shortbread and gingerbread, almond extract and vanilla, a drop of anise in the icing to give it a wonderfully spicy smell. There is a slow cooker off to one side, and when Malin opens it, the kitchen is filled with steam, and the scent of apples and cinnamon and nutmeg mingling with the aroma of cookies. He watches, brows rising as she empties a bottle of rum into the cider, stirring it before filling small glass mugs for each of them, and he is told the story of how her grandmother’s recipe was updated for modern appliances, but still managed to win the blue ribbon at this year’s fair, and last year’s as well. They toast their hard work, sipping cider while they wait for the next batch to go into the oven, and they chat - about veterinary school, about work, about what Mia’s daughters are doing for the holidays with their father. She’ll have them for New Year’s, and she uses a flour-coated finger to swipe through photos on her phone, and Dorian hears the love in her voice without having to look up. 

They all make it seem so easy to be a family, no matter the constellation, and when Cullen appears in the kitchen sometime later, Dorian can’t help but think about how he’s somehow been seamlessly added to that, just one more star, connected to only Cullen but still a part of the shape of it. It’s a comforting thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The boots that Dorian borrows from Cullen](https://global.llbean.com/shop/Mens-L.L.Bean-Boots%2C-8%22-Thinsulate/33549.html#start=1)
> 
> Dorian's tattoo translates to "They condemn what they do not understand."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Song for a Winter's Night - Gordon Lightfoot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JRIlTvYp0ok)

“Come on, Cullen, you gotta.” This time it’s Rosalie egging him on, and Dorian watches from his spot leaning against the doorframe as the old guitar from Cullen’s room appears from nowhere and is passed over to him. Cullen sighs, but takes it, smiling and nodding as his siblings congratulate each other on a well-fought campaign.

Dinner had been simple - homemade pizza with personalized toppings for anyone who wanted them, and now they’re all gathered in the living room, drinks in hand, relaxing after having put most of the finishing touches on the trees. The dark outside makes the lights reflect in the windows, doubling the amount of twinkling around them all.

“Dorian.” Cullen is absorbed in tuning when Mia pats the sofa next to her. “Come, sit. Get over here.”

It goes against his every instinct to join in in the middle of the family, but even after only two days he’s realized that Mia is a force to be reckoned with, and so he agrees, bowing his head to her as he slips around the corner of the sofa to sit. Branson is next to her, with his wife sitting on the floor by his feet, stretched out with a glass of wine in her hand. Malin sits in an armchair nearby, with Rosalie in a matching chair beside her, Jacob on her knee, babbling happily to himself. The other children are absorbed in re-arranging ornaments on the tree, or coloring in pictures of the North Pole to be left as gifts for the preeminent visitor and sole resident, who will be stopping by during the night.

Cullen strums a chord, clearing his throat. He looks almost uncomfortable, perched on a kitchen chair, one foot on the support to keep the guitar tilted up. He glances around at the audience, his eyes lingering a moment longer when he meets Dorian’s gaze. He almost wants to shush them when Cullen stops waiting and starts playing, but the song stills the conversation within seconds. 

The guitar is brighter than Dorian expected, the melody quicker. He had no idea what song to anticipate, and he finds that he doesn’t recognize it, leaving him listening that much more closely.

Cullen is completely absorbed in his playing, his eyes falling closed as he starts to sing. It’s clear he knows the song by heart, not needing to look at the neck of the guitar even as he moves over the neck, foot tapping softly on the carpet. His voice is rougher than Dorian’s heard it, lower than he usually sings, with an emotion that Dorian can’t place, though it shines through in every note.

The first chorus comes, and Rosalie bounces Jacob in her lap, the boy’s jingle bell rattle adding a seasonal touch to the solo guitar. Mia and Branson both laugh, and when Dorian turns to look at them, he is startled to see their eyes shining with tears, sparkling where the tree is reflected back in them. Branson reaches over and takes his mother’s hand, squeezing it. She smiles softly at her younger son before turning her attention back to Cullen.

There’s a furrow between Cullen’s brows that deepens as the song continues, as if he’s gone from simply closing his eyes to holding them shut, not wanting to open them and look around at the others. And yet he does, only for a moment, his gaze fixed on Dorian when he does, as though he could feel the way that Dorian was drinking in the sight of him - wine-red shirt rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned at his throat, dark jeans, hair starting to curl from the warmth of the room and the damp of being in the snow earlier, a lock hanging near his temple. 

_If I could only have you near to breathe a sigh or two  
I would be happy just to hold the hands I love on this winter night with you_

Dorian’s throat goes dry, and he coughs into his fist, taking a deep drink from his own glass of wine as Cullen disappears into the song again. Mia leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder and slipping her hand around his bicep as they both watch her brother. 

He feels full in a way that has nothing to do with how much pizza or how many cookies he’s stuffed himself with during the evening. This is different, a soft sort of slowness that could be brought on by the rum in the cider, but not only that. He’s loose-limbed, warm and relaxed in a sense that he’s not sure he’s ever felt when he’s been in a group like this. The room, the whole house - they’re filled to bursting with love, and it’s gotten into his system, breathed in through the air and left on his skin with each hug and held hand, Mia’s cheek on his shoulder. It’s mixed in to the food and the drink, it’s what makes the lights seem to twinkle more than he’s ever seen them. 

Dorian is safe here, as are he and Cullen, them, together. They are safe and they are wanted and welcomed, and his chest tightens as he puts these words to this feeling, his eyes stinging as he lets the realization sink in. 

The song is over, too soon for Dorian’s taste, but the atmosphere remains, floating out over all of them, the last notes shimmering in the air. Jacob squeals and tosses the rattle onto the floor, piercing the quiet and bringing them all back from wherever they’d drifted to. There is a sniffling next to him as Mia regains her composure, wiping a tear from her cheek, and Branson stands to hug his mother.

“That was beautiful, bro. You sound more and more like dad every year.” 

Cullen ducks his head at the compliment, but stands to accept her open arms, still holding the guitar in one hand when he wraps her in an embrace. Even from across the room Dorian can see when he whispers that he loves her, and Cullen meets his eyes again for an instant before pressing a kiss to his sister’s cheek and letting her go.

“Thank you, darling.” Cullen has to bend to let his mother kiss his cheek, his hand resting gently on her waist, hers lifted to touch his face. Dorian watches, smiling at the sight. This sort of love is no less than Cullen deserves.

He sets the guitar down to rest next to the chair, and Dorian takes that as his cue to stand as well. He rests his glass on the corner of the coffee table and tries to pick his way through the children on the floor, but Cullen is quicker, more used to the obstacle course of a big family gathered like this. There’s an unexpected brightness in Cullen’s eyes when he reaches Dorian, a focus that sets him off balance, makes him flush in the already warm room.

Cullen’s hands land on Dorian’s hips, and he’s guiding him backwards, two steps, three, Cullen’s eyes on something above both of them, past Dorian’s head. He realizes a split-second before it happens, and then Cullen is there, pulling him into a kiss.

Dorian has kissed Cullen before, but it’s as if he’s forgotten everything about how to kiss. His hands still for a moment, eyes open as he looks at Cullen, before he wills himself to relax, not pull back and away from him, giving in to that softness that had surrounded him a moment ago.  
Cullen’s hand curls into the hair at the back of his neck, and Dorian mirrors him, combing his fingers through his curls. He lowers his eyelids, but doesn’t close them, wanting to watch, knowing that he’ll see Cullen relax. He feels it as well as sees when Cullen smiles into the kiss when Dorian wraps his other arm around his waist, hand settled at the small of his back. Cullen smells like cinnamon, tastes like it, from his mother’s award-winning mulled cider, and it mingles with the red wine aftertaste that lingers on Dorian’s tongue. 

There is a part of his mind that tells him to slow down, to wait, not give himself over so completely in front of so many people. But ever since he set foot in this home, they have all worked, consciously or simply by being themselves, to show him that he and Cullen are welcome here, they are safe, and they can be as they want to be. There is no need to hide what he wants from any of them, and so he doesn’t. He melts into the kiss, sighing and smiling and resting his head against Cullen’s forehead when they finally pull apart from each other. He can feel Cullen’s chest rising and falling against his own, see the way the color’s risen on his cheeks.

“Sorry,” Cullen whispers, but Dorian only shakes his head.

“Please don’t be. I’m not.”

Cullen wraps his arms around him and holds him, his breathing slowing as Dorian’s own heart settles again. He glances up at the mistletoe, then looks past Cullen where his siblings are gathered in various poses of trying not to look, or blatantly staring. Mia gives him a soft smile, then turns away to look at her mother, then the tree, and Dorian knows that something’s passed between them, some unspoken assurance that he wasn’t looking for, but that he is relieved to find that he’s received.

Cullen straightens enough to move away from Dorian so that he can look at him again, and he’s almost sheepish now. When his hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, Dorian catches it in his own instead. There is nothing for him to be embarrassed about here; he won’t allow it.

“You really don’t mind?”

Dorian shakes his head. “Maybe don’t make a habit of it at the office, but here…” He looks past Cullen, lifting an eyebrow to nod towards the room. “We’re with family. You surprised me, but… it’s all right. Now, since we’re more or less in the kitchen anyway, do you think there’s any cider left?”


	5. Chapter 5

“ _Just a fly in the ointment, Hans. A monkey in the wrench. A pain in the ass._ ” Cullen mouths the lines along with Bruce Willis, and Dorian is sure he’s slipped into some sort of alternative reality. Perhaps he’s actually lying in the snow, out in the forest. He fell off the four-wheeler and hit his head and this is an elaborate hallucination.

They’re stretched out on Cullen’s bed, Cullen sitting back against the pillows and Dorian resting against his chest, his computer in his lap. Cullen’s chin is settled on Dorian’s shoulder, close enough that he can hear it when Cullen recites the dialogue.

And he knows every line, not just the hero cop’s.

“Is there nothing else you could think of to whisper in my ear?” He quips.

This time they’d been among the last to retreat to their room, staying up until after midnight with Cullen’s siblings, talking and laughing, helping wrap the last few presents for tomorrow. Dorian had dazzled, curling ribbons and sliding scissors to cut perfectly straight edges, pleased with himself until he was handed a pile of things to wrap while the others watched. But he’d been happy to help, feeling like part of the group. Eventually they’d all made their way to bed, and Cullen had mentioned on the way up the stairs that he had a Christmas Eve tradition he wanted to share with Dorian. 

In the minutes that passed between Cullen’s mentioning it and Dorian finding out what they were to be doing, his mind had generated a long and delightful list of ideas. Die Hard had not been anywhere on the list.

“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen this,” Cullen mutters. “It’s a classic.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, but says nothing. _It’s a Wonderful Life_ is a classic. _Holiday Inn_ is a classic. No amount of Cullen pointing out that the film was a benchmark for the genre, or the bizarre suggestion that it was based on Shakespeare, would change Dorian’s mind.

“Is this some sort of police thing, watching this at Christmas?”

Cullen’s breath is warm on his cheek when he huffs a laugh. “No, the other way around. This is part of why I wanted to become a police officer. Everyone else in the family does something connected to the farm, but I wanted this.”

Dorian takes Cullen’s hand where it’s resting by the corner of the laptop and wraps his arm around him, setting Cullen’s hand on his stomach and covering it with his own. Only Cullen Rutherford could make a movie like this into a sentimental moment, getting him to shut up and just watch for a while. 

The cop’s curly-haired wife delivers a devastating punch to the reporter, and Dorian grins. He’s reluctant to call it the magic of Christmas, but perhaps the movie wasn’t as bad as he’d anticipated it would be. Cullen had stopped muttering dialogue some time ago; Dorian isn’t even sure he’s awake until he moves his hand, slipping it up under the hem of his t-shirt.

The reunited couple share a passionate kiss in the back of a ruined limo, and Cullen mouths a kiss on the side of Dorian’s neck, his fingers drawing lazy circles on his skin under the covers. He reaches past Dorian with his other hand to close the laptop, then wraps that arm around him as well, pressing him against his chest.

Dorian lets his head fall back on Cullen’s shoulder, eyes half-closed in the dark of the room. He’s not about to be the one to stop them if Cullen wants to start something, but the words from his morning linger in his mind.

“Changed your mind, then, have you?”

He feels Cullen nod, the hand on his stomach teasing at the waistband of Dorian’s boxers. “I want to touch you,” Cullen whispers.

Dorian shivers, bringing one hand up to the back of Cullen’s neck. The other is on Cullen’s thigh under the blanket, tracing the same sort of soft lines on his skin. He knows that Cullen wants him; that had been apparent during the latter part of the movie, a distraction pressed against Dorian’s back where they laid together on the bed. He can feel it now as well, Cullen shifting his hips behind him.

“I thought this was your childhood home,” he drawls, even as he tilts his head to give Cullen better access. “Baseball cards and all that.”

Cullen chuckles, and it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. But he doesn’t want Cullen - warm and soft and tipsy - to do something that he might regret in the morning. Dorian can be as embarrassed as he likes, but he won’t ruin this trip for Cullen, no matter how much he wants him.

“I went through puberty in this room. These walls have seen their share of-- _touching._ ” His breath hitches as his body reacts to the word.

 _Oh._ Dorian prides himself on his imagination, but not even that had occurred to him until now. “Is that the bar you’re setting? We’re only doing things that you’ve already done to yourself here?” 

“Yes.” It’s more breath than word when Cullen says it, but that’s all the encouragement that Dorian needs. He slips his hand out of from under the covers, setting the laptop carefully on the floor, then turning in Cullen’s arms until they’re face to face. 

Cullen’s eyes are dark, even in the dark of the room. He can tease, but somehow he always winds up looking at Dorian with the same startled wonder when they come together, as if he can’t believe it, every time. It makes Dorian feel special, like something precious, and he hopes that he returns that with looks and kisses and touches of his own. 

“We’ll have to be very quiet,” Dorian murmurs between kisses.

Cullen nods, shifting to lower Dorian on to the bed so that they’re laying side by side, legs slotted together.

“No talking, then,” Dorian continues, and Cullen quirks a brow up. 

Dorian pulls him in close. “Show me,” he whispers.

And Cullen does.


	6. Chapter 6

He knows without looking that it’s late when he wakes up. The smell of bacon has made its way to the bedroom, and he can hear talking, but there is nothing in the kitchen or under the tree to compare to the gift that is waking up in bed with Cullen, draped along his side, not a stitch of clothing between them. Dorian closes his eyes again and snuggles in against Cullen, letting his mind drift to the night before. It was hardly their first time together, but there had been something bashful about it nonetheless, a sweetness to it that lingers now, that he’s not prepared to let go of yet.

Cullen is still asleep, and Dorian watches him. He moves his gaze slowly, trying to memorize every detail, all the little things that he can’t focus on when Cullen is with him otherwise. It’s too easy to spend his time looking into his eyes, or admiring his smile and the lines it makes on his face. But now, instead, he follows the curve of Cullen’s lower lip, the line of his jaw up to his ear. He takes in the jagged edge of the scar on his lip, the one he’s kissed so many times, as if he could take it away by sheer force of will. He’s never asked where it came from, only ever wanted to make sure it doesn’t hurt, and that Cullen knows that it doesn’t bother him, that Dorian sees him as so much more. He is so beautiful, in so many ways that have nothing to do with whiskey-colored eyes and long lashes, or the crooked way he smiles. There is strength and patience there, a tenacity and a moral compass that consistently amaze him. Dorian isn’t sure if he could survive half of what Cullen’s been through and still come out the other side a good man, but when he looks at Cullen, it makes him want to try.

While he wants to tell himself that he could be content to drink in Cullen this way forever, it’s simply not true, and after a while he gives in and touches, brushing a curl back from his forehead and tracing the line of his brow with one finger. Cullen’s face scrunches as he wakes up, but Dorian continues, gentle and constant.

“Good morning.” Cullen’s voice is rough with sleep, and he licks his lips after he speaks, eyes still closed. But he leans into Dorian’s touch, smiling at fingers on his cheek.

“Merry Christmas, amatus.” Dorian moves just enough to brush a kiss to the corner of Cullen’s mouth as he speaks.

Cullen smiles, blinking slowly, and Dorian pulls back, waiting for him to focus. When he does, it’s on Dorian, so warm that he could melt.

“Merry Christmas, love.” Cullen pulls him close, and Dorian rests his head on Cullen’s chest.

“What time is it?” Cullen asks.

“No idea. No one’s come to fetch us, though, so I’m in no rush.”

Cullen laughs, a push of air through his nose as he closes his eyes again. “Did last night really happen? I didn’t fall asleep during the movie and dream it, did I?”

Dorian shakes his head. “Quite real. But don’t take my word for it; if you’re not sure, we could do it again.”

This time when Cullen laughs, it’s with his whole body, enough to shake Dorian until he sits up a little, though he keeps a hand planted in the center of Cullen’s chest.

“You are… remarkable,” Cullen sighs as his laughter calms. “Hopeless, but then when it comes to you, so am I, I suppose. But no, we need to get up.”

He picks up Dorian’s hand and kisses his fingers before sliding out and sitting up, leaving Dorian lounging in the bed when he stands. He’s treated to quite the view as Cullen bends to collect his underwear from the floor and pull them on, his tank top as well.

“I was thinking yesterday that the shower was big enough for two.” Dorian grins up at him, chin resting on his hand.

“There are going to be children everywhere today. No, Dorian, we--” Cullen sighs. “No.”

“You would think that a man should be able to get what he wants on Christmas,” Dorian mutters.

“You’re at the top of the naughty list, and don’t pretend you don’t know it,” Cullen calls as he disappears out into the hall.

Dorian waits until he’s gone, then gets out of bed as well. He pulls on last night’s clothes again quickly, then rummages through his bag, looking for the one gift he’d been careful not to put under the tree.

“Top of the naughty list, as if I don’t know,” he mutters to himself. “I invented the naughty list. Mine should be the only name on there.”

Cullen reappears a while later, pink and practically steaming from the shower. Dorian tucks the package under the blankets, hoping against hope that Cullen waits for him in the bedroom as he rushes through his own shower and shave.

He’s relieved to find Cullen sitting on the bed, though somewhat less to see that he’s got the present in his lap. He’s dressed in yet another flannel shirt, this one in dark blues and greens, with a black t-shirt under it.

“I found this.” Cullen holds it out to him when he walks in. “We can take it downstairs with us when we go. It was under the blankets.”

“I know.” Dorian busies himself with finding clothes - a deep green turtleneck and a pair of dark jeans - while trying to avoid meeting Cullen’s gaze. He’d been so sure that this gift was perfect, right up until he realized that Cullen would actually be opening it and seeing it, and now it feels somehow inadequate, silly. “I put it there. I wanted…” He turns and moves to face Cullen. Might as well get it over with. “Go on then, open it.”

Cullen looks from him to the package and back, and again, as if unsure if he really ought to. But after a moment he tears into the paper, revealing the hand-made mittens he’d admired at the market. It seems like it’s been longer than a week since that day.

“These are…” He looks up at Dorian. “You went back and got them? You noticed, and you-- I’m speechless, thank you, Dorian.”

He stands, pulling Dorian into a firm hug that he’s all too happy to reciprocate.

“I’ve never been good at Christmas,” Dorian explains. It’s easier when he doesn’t have to look at him. “And so I got to the point where I didn’t want to be good at it. Same with families, I guess. But then you came along, and suddenly I wanted. I’ve never known someone who loves Christmas like you do, and here I was, a lifetime of working to be rubbish at it, and that’s not easy for someone like me, who’s good at everything. If you could’ve seen your face when you saw those mittens, anyone with a heart would’ve gotten them for you.”

“But it’s not just anyone that did,” Cullen replies, pulling away to look him in the eyes. “It was you that did. You and your heart, Dorian. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Dorian repeats, kissing him. “Thank you for bringing me here, and taking me to that market, and showing me that movie, and… I’ve never had a Christmas like this.”

Cullen grins. He has the mittens in one hand, and he takes Dorian’s hand with the other. “We’re only getting started. Let’s go, before they send someone up to find us.”

They make their way downstairs to find the house filled with life. Carols clash from different radios in the living room and kitchen, where there is enough food set out to fill an army. Cullen hands him a plate, and Dorian piles it high with all the things he likes, surprised to find how many of his favorites are there. He gives Cullen a questioning look, but gets only a grin and a shrug in response. 

Breakfast and coffee collected, they join the others in the sitting room around the tree, by the fireplace. Every chair in the house appears to be assembled there in anticipation. Rosalie has already started splitting up packages, and she points to where Cullen and Dorian’s are gathered together near an empty armchair. Cullen sits, and after a moment’s hesitation, Dorian settles onto his lap, holding his plate in one hand while he eats.

Dorian’s gifts are far and away the most expensive, eliciting oohs and ahhs from all assembled: the latest sorts of toys for the children, an engraved necklace with her daughters’ names and birthstones for Mia, an exquisite hand-carved chess set for Branson, an all-natural fair trade messenger bag filled with certificates for donations made in her name for Rosalie, and a gift package for a weekend at a spa in the city for Malin.

“She’s never once come in to visit me,” Cullen whispers when he sees her open it.

“I know,” Dorian replies, not wanting her to hear. “She should see how you live, the city you love. It’s only right.”

They take turns, but it seems to be in the order that everyone opens gifts from the same person at once, so that finally they come around to Cullen. Dorian leans down to his pile and collects two gifts, setting them in his hands where his arms are around Dorian’s waist.

Cullen looks down at them, then up at him again. “But you already gave me--”

“You really think that’s all I got you? If I’m going to do Christmas, I’m going to do it generously.”

He does his best to be patient while Cullen opens them. The first, softer package is a scarf in deep red and black and gold. Dorian prefers sleeker things, but he knows that Cullen likes a bit of bulk in the winter, so it’s made with heavy yarn, long enough to be wrapped around his neck several times over, but still soft. Cullen runs his hands over it, smiling, before handing it off to Mia to be passed around the room so the others can admire it.

The next gift is more solid, and Cullen screws up his face when he looks at Dorian. “You got me a book?” He teases.

“You can trade with one of the kids for a Switch if you want, but open it first,” he replies, one hand on the back of Cullen’s neck, playing idly with his hair.

“ _The Sign of Four._ ” Cullen turns the book over in his hands, then leafs through it. “This must be-- how old is this?”

“Eighteen-ninety. And if you check the first page…” But Cullen is ahead of him, already reading the note tucked inside.

_To the best detective I’ve ever known.  
All my love, Dorian_

Cullen’s eyes are shining when he meets Dorian’s gaze again.

“Okay, now you finally get to open something, Dorian, come on! We’ll start with mine this time.” Rosalie gives the orders, and Dorian obediently follows. 

A set for starting an herb garden, a different but still lovely chess set, a manicure kit with what he has to admit are expertly chosen shades for him, a new set of wireless headphones, and a pair of cloth bracelets - one says “Trust your gut” and the other “Prove them wrong.” These are the gifts that he has piled in his lap by the time they’ve gone around all the turns but one. Only Cullen’s gift is left.

The children opened theirs without waiting, and have long since gone out to play, or been put down for naps, depending on age. The arrangement of the room has shifted as there’s been more room for people, presents taking up less space when they’re being worn. Cullen is sitting on the floor with his back to the armchair, and he looks up at Dorian expectantly, but there’s something else there as well.

“It’s nothing fancy,” Cullen starts as Dorian peels off the tape. He’s the sort who likes to open packages neatly, though not the sort who has any illusions about reusing the paper in the future.

Inside he finds two ornaments, one in wood and one in what looks like glass. The wooden one is beautifully carved to resemble a snowflake, the arms covered with delicate scrollwork, a fragile gold chain looped through the top for hanging on the tree. It’s been painted with clear lacquer mixed with glitter, so that the pale woods shifts in color where he turns it in the light. The other is flat on one side, but rounded out, like a lens. It also has flecks of glitter, like a snowglobe, but suspended. The backing is a photo of him and Cullen, mugging for the camera, Cullen kissing him on the cheek. 

“This was our second date,” Dorian mumbles as the memory washes over him. They’d gone to dinner, then out for drinks, then gone to the latest possible showing at the theater in the mall. He doesn’t remember what movie it was; it had just been an excuse for them not to end the night. They’d found the photo booth tucked back in a corner of the mall and spent ten dollars taking silly photos. He still has one of them - a much more passionate kiss - in his wallet, the edges of it well worn from being taken out and looked at often.

“The other one has space for a photo, too, but I thought… I thought you might want to pick which one to put there.” Cullen’s voice is small, and Dorian looks from the ornaments to him.

“You made these?”

He nods. “Blackwall from ballistics helped me with the carving, I’d never set a hinge on one before. But I… I like this sort of thing. I like thinking about a person and what I think they’d like, and bringing it to life. It’s like giving a part of me, I suppose. Really, in this case; I nicked my finger carving the wooden one, there might be blood there. The resin was an experiment this year, but I think it turned out--”

Dorian kisses him to stop him talking, because he has no words of his own, because no one’s ever put so much thought into something for him before, and he doesn’t want Cullen to think for a second longer that he doesn’t adore them.

“They’re perfect, Cullen.” 

Cullen opens his mouth again, and Dorian sets a finger to his lips.

“ _Perfect._ ”

Cullen smiles. “I was only going to tell you that you can see the rest of them on the tree. You can get a better look after we do stockings.”

Cullen gets to his feet, as do the other siblings and present partners. He looks back, holding out a hand for Dorian.

“Come on, yours is here too.”

Dorian’s head falls to the side, but he gets up, taking Cullen’s hand and being led to the fireplace.

There, next to Cullen’s stocking, is one that is clearly newer, but made in the same style, red and green patchwork with his name in glitter on the white felt at the top.

“This wasn’t here last night,” he whispers, running his fingers over it reverently.

“I made it this morning while you two slept in,” Malin says from her spot on the couch. Her hears the humor in her voice, but also the warmth. She’s choosing her words carefully, and he appreciates that. “All the kids have theirs, and when they add someone to the family, they get one, too.”

“There’s usually just fruit and candy in them,” Cullen says to him, digging through his own without looking at Dorian. “They’re more a fun thing than any real-- _Hey._ ” His voice goes soft, and immediately there is a hand on Dorian’s cheek, wiping away the tear that gives in to gravity and rolls down. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Cullen is careful to place his body so that the others don’t see, giving Dorian a moment of privacy to collect himself. He presses their foreheads together, watching Dorian, waiting until he nods and gives Cullen a smile. It was only a momentary loss of control, but he’s not ready to show them all that yet.

Dorian moves away from Cullen, bending down to give Malin a hug. She’s sat forward on the couch, almost as if she was expecting it.

“Thank you, Ma. It’s… thank you.” 

She just nods at him and smiles when he steps away. “Merry Christmas, darling. Welcome to the family.”

Cullen catches his hand and gives it a little tug. “I want to show you the tree.”

“Yes, go,” Malin shoos them away. “We’re done with presents, I want to finish the crossword before I have to start cooking.”

Cullen chuckles, and Dorian laughs with him, following where he’s led. The tree from yesterday is all but unrecognizable, covered in lights and tinsel, and dozens of handmade ornaments. There’s hardly a store-bought bauble among them, instead replaced by wood carvings, glass balls filled with glitters and photos, braided fabric for some of them. Each one is a different memory, and Cullen tells him the stories of all of them, one at a time, teaching him about the family he’s becoming a part of.

“Where should I hang mine?” The tree is filled, and while he asks the question with a certain ceremonial sentimentality, he’s also unsure if there’s any space.

“Well, I think we can find room here, but I did make two,” Cullen replies, his tone thoughtful, perhaps even a little cautious. “I thought maybe next year, we could start our own tree, and you could hang the other one there.” His eyes are fixed on the tree, not looking at Dorian, though he is rubbing his thumb on Dorian’s knuckle. Cullen’s nervous, he realizes. He’s talking to Dorian about a future together, and he’s afraid.

“I’d like that.” He leans against Cullen, waits until he looks at him. “But we can come back next year, too, if you want. I told you I’ve never had a Christmas like this, and I’d like to have more. With you.”

He sees it when the tension goes out of Cullen’s shoulders and his jaw. “Me too. Merry Christmas, Dorian.”

“Merry Christmas, amatus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> I couldn't have done this without [aeducans ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeducans) and [diemarysues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues) encouraging me. Thank you both so much!


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